dogpile
by paperfires
Summary: "My dog ate my mission report" An injured Steve remembers something he has to do. Unabashed Steve and dogs fluff. "Didn't peg you for a pet guy." "Allergies."


The voice that first greets him is warm, familiar, and feminine. "How're you feeling, Cap?"

"Like I fell nine stories and then got run over by a truck," he groans, still exhausted and unable to keep his eyes open properly. Natasha and Tony are by him he sees blearily, the former sitting in what is distinctly a SHIELD hospital chair while the latter stands with his hands in his pockets.

"Eleven stories, actually, which you fell from because you jumped on a fucking _bomb_ and went flying," Tony fumes. "There may be wings on your helmet, Steve, that doesn't mean you can fly."

"Was hoping it might be a dummy," and neither of his visitors understand his faint grin behind the oxygen mask. However, the memory of false grenades and underestimating colonels is quickly washed away by the ever-present feeling of pain.

Everything hurts; his chest, his legs, his face, his nose. "The others?" he inquires in an attempt to distract himself.

"Everyone's fine. Clint pulled a muscle, but that was just stupidity on his part. You're the only one we've had to worry about."

"How long've I been out?"

"Five days, but the first 34 hours of that you were in surgery." Natasha pauses, a flash of concern flickering in her eyes. "You don't remember?"

Steve scrunches his face a bit, trying to recall details of the last time he was conscious. There's bursts of bright light, yelling, words that meant nothing, beeping, and pain that flitter through his memory, but everything after suiting up and boarding the quinjet are merely blurs of colour and motion. "Not really. S'kinda just a haze right now."

Tony leaves to find a nurse or a doctor and let them know the Captain's awake. Natasha remains and offers silent company, letting him squeeze her hand through the hurting of his body, though she knows that he's keeping himself from breaking her fingers.

"Shit," he mutters. He looks like he's been through hell, and with the number of times he'd flatlined those tenuous 34 hours, he just might have. But now there's guilt on his worn out features, and just before he lapses back into unconsciousness, he mumbles, "Someone feed my dogs."

.

.

.

"'Feed my dogs?'"

"Yeah. Apparently he has dogs. Plural. Multiple carnivorous animals that–"

"You don't like dogs, Stark?" Clint asks, his eyebrows up in question.

"No, not particularly. So I'm just going to let someone else feed the mutts. If they haven't died of starvation yet."  
"Not happening, Tony," Bruce rebukes. "You're coming with me."

"What? Why are _you_ going?"

"Clint and Natasha are going to try and convince Fury to let Steve recuperate here at the Tower." The spies nod in confirmation. "Thor's got a date with Jane, which leaves me and you. And I don't know where Steve's apartment is. You've been there before, and so we're both going."

"That was once and only because I was drunk and Steve didn't want to haul my ass back over here all the way from Brooklyn."

"You have his address though."

"He does," Natasha says, scrolling through her teammate's phone.

"I do," Tony resigns, wondering absently when the Black Widow had snatched the phone that had been in his pocket a moment ago.

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They drive out to Brooklyn, getting lost once when Tony decides that JARVIS's directions were wrong and that he _distinctly remembered turning left here_. They make it eventually, but neither are in the best moods. The sky above them is filled with clouds heavy with rain waiting to fall, the air already growing humid and uncomfortable.

This part of Brooklyn seems older, not simply in the sense that it hasn't been modernize (though it hasn't entirely, the roads melding between pavement and brick, buildings mostly of brick), but there is history and presence bound to this area that neither of the scientists can quite explain.

Number 1404 of the street leads them to four story building that has probably been there longer than Steve.

"Hard loft," Bruce thinks aloud, noting the particular style of the building as something more industrial than residential. It may have been a warehouse at one point, but it seems its use as apartment space has not started recently. Inside is rather bare, the concrete and brick of the halls and stairwells bringing a chill to the two men's backs as the climb up to the fourth floor.

Steve's apartment can be described as minimalistic, if not plain military. There's little to distinguish his front room from a SHIELD waiting room aside from the three picture frames on the far wall. Everything is neat and in its place, orderly to the last speck of dust.

The alleged dogs are nowhere to be seen, so they venture farther in, checking first the kitchen (which is also basic and empty save for a couple beers in the fridge) then the first door after the front room.

It seems Steve's planned his home advantageously though, as the room they enter is far larger than the room meant to take guests and is in fact the main room. The first room had probably been a guest bedroom previously. The space they enter now is a radical change from what the rest of the building puts forward. The outer wall has three windows, though the center window stretches farther than the others, red brick filling the space that isn't glass. The other three walls are painted a welcoming mossy green. One side of the room houses a couch and two dog mats, a phonograph and modern radio sitting on a long wooden cabinet table. Through the glass of the cabinet drawers, stacks of vinyl records can be seen. There's a low book case as high as the cabinet, filled with all sorts of books, fantasy, history, sci-fi, politics, even text books.

It's a comfortable looking space to relax in, especially for someone like Steve; the area neat, tidy, and cozy. The other side of the large room however, is less than a neat freak's paradise. More like a fiery pit of chaotic hell.

Aptly, it's an art studio.

Papers and pencils, paints and canvases, and everything an artist of Steve's type may want to create with. None of the Avengers have seen their leader use anything more than a pad of paper and pencil or pen, the man always insisting that he preferred that simple medium above all others. Clearly that hadn't stopped him from trying out other things.

On the drafting table is an expansive pencil sketch that takes up most of the surface, the concept of something architectural, but the lines are empty, without shadow or detail, a work unfinished though knowing Steve that won't last too long.

The easel bears a canvas similar in size to the pencil sketch, however this work is by no means empty. A dreary scene of mud and rain and down trodden soldiers encompasses the canvas, a weight of something far too solemn for their smiling and upbeat Captain to have produced.

Glancing quickly at the other paintings and drawings, Tony notices that there's no real theme to any of it, just whatever Steve felt like putting to paper; flowers, people, landscapes, cups, birds, coins.

Tony looks up and around, finding that Bruce is no longer with him. He ventures out, hearing a bark from another room.

"Got distracted?" Bruce asks, a single eyebrow twitching upward.

"No. It's just that I was too drunk and then too hung over to get a good look around the place is all. Was hoping to find something dirty to tease Cap with later."

The two dogs are not dead, as evidently depicted by the small and big canines who are currently growling at the intruders in the doorway. There's a bag of kibble behind them, torn apart by hungry pets, the contents spilling over the floor. It smells pretty bad too, and Tony supposes it makes sense considering no one's let them out since last Wednesday. Tony recognizes the bigger one as a Labrador retriever, the smaller one some sort of terrier, he thinks. He doesn't like dogs.

They're tough looking things that could probably do a number on him and even unleash the Hulk. Tony's mind whirs as he tries to think up a way to get the dogs to calm and put away their bared teeth. Fortunately a mind better suited for planning has thought ahead, and Bruce pulls a scrap of white cloth from a pocket. He bends down and the smaller, tan and black dog goes forward to sniff it. The larger does the same after a moment's hesitation and then licks Bruce's hand.

"Did you lace that cloth with something?"

"No, just part of Steve's old t-shirt that got too torn up to be used anymore; I figured they would trust a familiar scent."

"Good thinking. So… what do we do now? I mean, they're fed. Kinda."  
"And they've been drinking from the toilet in the bathroom. The floor's wet."

"Great! Then they're all set. Let's go home."

"Tony."

The huff that follows his name gives the billionaire a sinking feeling.

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Steve's move from the SHIELD facility to Stark's tower is painful, if nothing else. But being the soldier and stubborn man he is, he grits his teeth and makes it to the room he uses whenever he stays over (which isn't often) with a decent amount of help from Natasha and Clint and doesn't complain once. While Stark tower isn't his most favourite place in the world, it's better than SHIELD medical.

He's out the moment his head hits the pillow, and the spies are left smiling quietly at the way their leader snuggles into the covers. There's no need to be quiet about leaving, in his state he'll sleep through anything – it's more unconsciousness than sleep – and had nearly passed out on his way here, but they're sure not to disrupt the silence as they exit.

Fury hadn't put up much of a fight about keeping Steve, knowing that once the injured man could remain conscious for more than ten minutes without crippling pain to keep him in bed, he'd be asking to be released and cleared for duty then and there.

And wouldn't stop pestering until it happened.

Which was an amusing week, Natasha thinks back, but perhaps it's best not to try that again this time. And luckily Fury recognizes that. In the tower it'll be harder for Steve to try and sneak out.

"You better not be calling to say they're dead," Clint answers when his phone goes off. "That's good… What?… They just… You two are supposed to be superheroes or something, and you couldn't stop two dogs from doing whatever they wanted? You 'kind of wanted that to happen anyway'. Geez, you two… Fine, I'll tell Nat."

"Tell me what?"

"Let's go buy dog food. And other dog… stuff."

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.

.

He wakes groggily and the first thing he notes it the tightness in his chest. It may have been better to have stayed in the fully equipped med facility at SHIELD, where he'd have been kept on oxygen for another day or two. But when his eyes focus and he sees his team scattered about the room looking fairly comfortable, he's glad he didn't hang around. The curtains are drawn and the clock on the wall reads 3:39AM in red block letters.

Each time he comes back from the blackness of oblivion, for however short a time frame, he slowly remembers the details of the mission. And getting blown into the air by that bomb and landing skewered on some sort of spike, pole, thing? That had hurt, and so had the ensuing surgery to fix him. Metabolism too fast for drugs to knock him out: added to the list of cons of being a super soldier. But it did let him do other things that were well worth the sacrifice of a little pain. To be honest, he hadn't realized how powerful the bomb would be and figured covering it with his shield (and himself) would be enough to minimize the damage to the surroundings and keep its citizenry safe.

He's distracted from wondering what happened after by a shifting of something by his side and on his arm. He also notes to weight of something on his thigh.

"They're loyal, that's for sure. They followed us back. I gave them a whiff of one of your shirts and wouldn't stop following us until they got to you."

It's Dr Banner who speaks, the others asleep or pretending to sleep in their various spots about the room. Bruce is in the chair nearest him, first to react should something go wrong. Steve brings his arm out from under his Labrador retriever and gives her head a gentle rub. The dog sleeps undisturbed; however, she nuzzles her master's hand slowly in sleep.

"They weren't trouble, I hope."

"Aside from Tony's complaining about them– no. But he gives them treats when he thinks no one is looking."

"I wasn't supposed to be gone more than a day. I left them alone for so long…"  
"Don't feel bad, things happen. Plus they managed pretty well on their own. Tore open a bag of kibble and even got water. They're smart."

Steve hums contemplatively, still rubbing Sandy's cream coloured head and feeling Otto pawing at his knee. He can feel a headache coming on. He'll have to plan for when things happen, make sure there's someone to look after them should anything happen to him. He's not used to having to think of someone back home waiting for him.

"They haven't left you, not for a moment since they got here. Tony brought in kitty litter for them to use."

"Is it weird that I've trained them to know what to do with that stuff?"

"No, it's been helpful."

Despite the fact that he's been sleeping almost constantly, Steve yawns and feels his eyes droop.

"Get some sleep."  
"I've slept seventy years," Steve murmurs with a twitch of his lips.

"Surely nearly getting blown to pieces and then actually getting skewered is a good enough excuse."  
"Guess s'good enough."

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In the morning, well, afternoon but no one really wants to tease Steve about sleeping the day away when he's struggling to sit up and ignoring Banner's urging to take it easy. Steve's probably the worst with injuries, not that he's injured often, but when he is his habit is to try and continue as if nothing were wrong.

But Steve just wants to get his feet on the ground. He doesn't have to stand, he'd probably just fall over. He wants to sit on the floor, level with his furry friends and give them a good rub, scratch Otto's favourite spot on his leg. When he settles on the soft rug, Otto's the first to approach, licking his bandage free fingers and then poking his wet nose into his cheek. Sandy's less calm about greeting him and immediately goes to lick his face, paws all over him and pushing against his fractured clavicle. "Easy, girl. 'm a bit banged up." But Steve doesn't mind much, laughing and eventually ending up with a lap full of Labrador retriever. "Sorry I left you so long," Steve murmurs apologetically, hugging both dogs to him. He looks oddly like a child with his body curled toward the dogs and head pressed to them. "I'll try and be better at this." The terrier moves and sits dutifully by him as his left leg gets a good scratching.

"Didn't peg you for a pet guy," Tony remarks. The others have dispersed, off to do whatever they have planned for a Thursday.

"I didn't think I was one either, since I couldn't really be around cats or dogs without sneezing every minute. Allergies."  
"Which the serum fixed."  
"Yeah, but war wasn't the best time to go looking for a puppy. One of the mechanics with our unit had a dog, was pretty good at mechanic stuff too; the dog was some sort of husky mix. Everyone started calling him Auto, but I think his actual name was Wilfred."

"So you figured 21st century's a good a time as any to get some companions?"

"No, actually. Sandy," he patted the cream dog, "jumped me when I was running in central park. She was terrified of something or someone and was slightly mad. Once she calmed down she was better, but ended up following me home. Wouldn't stop even when I took her to a shelter."  
"Let me guess, she made puppy dog eyes at you?"

"Pretty much. Otto I found in pretty bad shape in a dumpster. I brought him home fully intending to hand him over to a shelter the next day. Which never happened and now look where we are, five months later."

Tony observes them for a while more, amused by the snuggling the animals are content to do with their injured owner. Steve too seemes to benefit from the affection, relaxing more than he normally would after an emergency like the one they'd faced.

"We still need to talk about your 'stupid and rash decisions' thing."

"There was a school a block away, Tony. At least six hundred elementary school kids."  
"Which you saved – you crushed something in the bomb with your shield which lessened the blow – but throwing yourself on the damn thing wasn't the smartest play."

"Coming from the man whose best plan is 'attack'."

"Which is why we have you: the man with a plan."

Steve huffs, annoyed but not angered or upset. They'll have more words – with the rest of the team – but for now Tony get up and leaves Steve some time with his dogs.

"By the way," he says, sticking his head back in the room. "We also need to talk about letting us into your personal life more. You've got a freaking art studio but all we ever see are your pencil doodles. And you've had dogs for five months? Really? Didn't think to tell us about that?"

"I did. Sort of."  
"When?"

"My dog ate my mission report, remember that one? Wasn't lying. Otto was hungry."

"A _long_ talk, Rogers. Be prepared to take notes."

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When Steve had made the 'dog at my report' excuse two months ago, Natasha thought his expression was too earnest and not enough joking for it to have simply been that. But nothing came of it so it'd been forgotten, and only remembered again when Tony had recounted what Steve had said to them in the penthouse.

It's Natasha who goes to see if he's feeling strong enough to make is way up for dinner with the team. What she finds makes her assassin's heart warm, even if it's just a bit.

On the other end of the rug from where she'd last seen them, Steve and his pets lie sleeping.

Sandy is a pillow for Steve's head, one of his arms reaching up to circle loosely around her neck. Otto has his head on Steve's chest, the furry little body lying on the unskewered and relatively uninjured side of Steve's torso.

Natasha backs out slowly, unwilling to let her presence be the disruption of the resting dog pile. She has JARVIS save some photos to her computer of this, for blackmail purposes, she decides.


End file.
